He looks up and their eyes meet. He waves to her as if they’d agreed to get together right there.
“Liza, that’s some bug you’ve got,” he says approaching, a broad smile on his face.
“This Beetle’s my baby,” she says.
He taps the car’s headlight. “Mine was a yellow one.” He rubs his palm over the hood. “Original. These bugs are some works of art. A piece of art should never be repainted.” His hand glides over the fender affectionately.
His tie-dyed shirt is almost the same colour as the car. He is squinting hard with his right eye to keep the sun out, the left one remaining large and unblinking as if it were a translucent blue marble. Fine lines gather around the corners of his eyes. Creases have set in his face as if he has spent too much time in the sun. She is reminded of the Clint Eastwood rugged good looks. Except that the man facing her has a heavier build — at least in comparison to the movie-screen Eastwood. She has to admit that David’s tall frame enables him to carry a bit of extra weight very well. She usually towers over her female friends, including Anna, and it’s a nice change not to feel taller than the man she is with. Up to now, it did not seem to matter, but somehow, with David, it does. It gives her a sense of comfort. He looks older than the first time she met him — perhaps late-thirties?
Searching for a writing pad, Liza fumbles through her briefcase, then sets it on the pavement. She takes off her sandals and dangles them on her finger by the heel straps, opens the car door and shoves them under the passenger seat. From the back, she picks up a pair of slip-ons. When she straightens, David is back by the stone blocks. She heaves the briefcase onto the back seat and locks the door.
She walks to the granite pieces and stands by him. “I’m off on my usual rounds. Would you like to join me? Check out the sites? We’d just be following in each other’s footsteps anyway.”
He smirks. “We would, wouldn’t we?”
She fixes her eyes on him. “I’ve seen you here a few times. You have an interest in the Symposium?”
“This is huge. First of its kind.”
“Sure is. And I do love this job,” she says.
“I figured that. You’re here a lot.”
“And?”
“Hard to explain. I wasn’t sure. . . how. . .”
“What is it, David?”
He shrugs. “I’m a draft dodger.”
“Oh?”
“You OK with that?”
“What is it you do? I mean, what kind of work?”
“I teach sculpting. When I can get work.” He adds: “Toronto Arts College. Used to teach at U of T.”
She tightens her lips and gives him a long stare. “This all makes sense.”
“It does?” He bows subtly, slowly reaches for her hand, and brings her fingertips to his lips. Gently, he pecks each fingertip, then plants a soft kiss on the back of her hand.
Heat clambers her cheeks, then her ears, and the hilly ground beneath her feet shifts ever so subtly.
Liza looks up — everything around her is vibrant and brilliant, the sculpture sites alive with possibilities.
He takes off his red wooden bead necklace and hooks it around her neck.
“Friends?”
CHAPTER 6
July
“TAKE A SWIG, Baby.” David pulls the paper bag out of his knapsack and hands it over to Liza.
“You can’t be serious,” she says. “And don’t call me Baby.” She takes the bag from him, pulls the thermos out, and laughs. “It’s just a thermos. A nice canary yellow. Why keep it in a paper bag?”
“Guilty mind, I guess,” he says and takes her hand.
This should count as our fifth date, Liza ponders, and an inner glow overtakes the guarded persona within her. Her doubts about seeing him and her fear of falling for him wane in his presence. But Anna’s subtle warnings gnaw at her. What do you know about him, Liza? She tries to push them away, but they linger, persistent enough to make her feel that she is doing something wrong. Up to now, she had no secrets from Anna, and David is the first man Liza is uneasy mentioning. Is Anna protecting her from him? Even more puzzling, she seems to know each time Liza and David see each other — eerie to feel spied on by a close friend.
They get up from the bench by Colborne Lodge Drive and walk to Flower Power. From this vantage point at the top of the hill, the sculpture sites below them unfold, each a theatre stage in itself, with park visitors as audience to the work-in-progress. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, the sites are a magnet not only to the Torontonians but also many tourists.
David spreads his jean jacket out on the grass, sits on a corner, and playfully pulls her on his knee. “This better?” He draws her into an embrace. Liza unscrews the thermos, fills the cup, and takes a sip. She smacks her lips at the taste of fresh lemon and honey.
He laughs. “Got you! Didn’t I?”
“Surprised me, yes,” she says. “I know you’d rather have a Queen Mother.”
“I see you’ve got your report on you. Is this a working date? Or just your way of luring me here to your lair?”
“I could stay like this forever, but I better get working on that report.”
“It’s Sunday afternoon. No one works on a Sunday afternoon.”
“Need it for tomorrow morning. Monday staff meeting, as usual.”
They walk down the hill to Pauta Saila’s site. David wraps his arm around her shoulders. “See Pauta down there? Making the two-month sculpt-in an event to remember. The man’s committed.”
“Everybody’s talking about his ‘Dancing Bear’,” Liza says.
David rubs his beard. “Sure thing. A polar bear balancing on one foot! That’s challenging.”
“Growing up on Baffin Island has its benefits — Pauta’s been seeing polar bears all his life.”
A group of visitors are gathered outside the rope cordoning off Saila’s site. Some are taking photos and others are chatting with “artists’ children” patrolling the sites. The children of the artists, joined by a number of local kids, have organized a patrol group to help answer visitor queries and in this way free up the sculptors to work on their pieces. They have taken on the job as the self-appointed tour-guides and have become part of the scene at Sculpture Hill.
After chatting with one of the young tour-guides, a woman with a beehive hairdo and a hot pink mini dress turns to Liza. She points to Saila who is working on his piece. “Is that the Eskimo they’re talking about? In the paper.”
Liza smiles. “That’s Pauta Saila. Highly respected in his field.”
A man in a baseball cap, camera in hand, joins them. Looking at Liza, he says: “You keeping tabs on these guys here?”
Liza winces. “Not sure what you mean.”
The baseball cap points to Pauta and continues: “His wife and three children. Having time of their life. Getting used to drinking coke and watching television.”
Another man steps closer. “Sure thing, man. On government expense.”
Liza shoots them an incensed look. “Miserly two thousand dollars for the whole summer’s work. If he was flipping burgers he’d make more than that.”
David turns to the man. “It’s not easy to uproot a family and go to a strange place. Saila has talent. I’d give anything to be in his place.”
The baseball cap takes a few more shots. “I wouldn’t mind playing with that stone if somebody paid me.”
Liza takes David’s hand and they make their way to the other side of the site. Pauta looks up through his large goggles, nods to them, and then continues with his work.
As they walk to another site, David murmurs: “Chipping away at his stone bear like there’s no tomorrow. The man’s a workaholic.”
She wraps her arm around his waist. “You and Pauta have much more in common than you’re letting on.”
He stops to light the ci
garette and takes a long drag. Slowly, he blows out the smoke. “I can’t say I wouldn’t like to be in his place. Pauta’s. No, I couldn’t say that. I just wouldn’t trade this place.” He tightens his embrace. “I wouldn’t trade being with you for anything.”
“Oh, David, don’t say that.”
“Why not, Babe? There’s more to life than getting the contract. It gets to me every once in a while. But I’m over it. Was over it months ago, soon as I found out. If you can’t do it, you teach it, I always say.”
“You don’t sound like you’re over it. And nobody said you couldn’t do it. You simply didn’t get the contract. And neither did the other few hundred artists.”
“Twelve did. Let’s just see if the judges made the right choice. The work will speak for itself.”
“You’ve done incredible things, David. Standing up for what you believe in. Leaving your own country. Adjusting to a new life here. Getting a teaching job at the TAC. That’s more than some people accomplish in a lifetime. You shouldn’t feel bad.”
“Feeling good, now, Baby, feeling good. Toronto Arts College is a good place to teach. I’m done with U of T and their politics.”
“I’d really like to see some of your work.”
“And that you will, soon. I promise.”
He closes his eyes, and traces her features with his fingertips — the bridge of her nose, her lips, the curve of her chin, the outline of her neck, her collar bone.
Seeing David transported into another world, she wonders what he envisions in that realm of his imagination.
She is taken back to the previous weekend and their trip to Wasaga, about a two-hour drive north of Toronto. She is behind David on his Harley, riding along the newly-built Highway 400, and then along the winding side roads meandering through the perfume of pine forests and scent of farmland — through the waves of swaying wheat, and the spans of green corn stalks, and the sweeps of purple clover. They arrive at the golden shore of Wasaga — the longest fresh water beach in the world — and Liza feels as if she has entered another realm. This is her first time in the Georgian Bay cottage country, her first time at this sun-drenched expanse of water and sand
and sky.
She soon realizes that the Globe and Mail write-ups about the Yorkville Hippies moving to Wasaga were not totally exaggerated. Hundreds of young people the articles referred to as “long-haired hipsters from Yorkville” had made themselves at home all along the beach. They set up temporary camps — blankets, knapsacks, bags of chips and pop bottles, and some tents perched here and there among the sand dunes — along the shore. The storekeepers smile at Liza, but give David, with his long hair and unruly beard and cutoff jean shorts with fraying fabric hanging down his thighs, unwelcome looks. Good thing he took off his biking leathers, Liza thinks.
While having lunch at a restaurant overlooking the lake, Liza catches the snippets of conversation — about all night parties with loud music and young vagrants sleeping on the beach and among the sand dunes, and how the influx of uninvited “hipsters” makes the townspeople edgy. Reports of shoplifting and petty crimes hype up the panic. Apparently, a woman reported her laundry being stolen from the clothes line in her yard, towels and shirts and bathing suits. A man called the police because his grocery bags were taken from his shopping cart. He had left the groceries in the cart in front of the store for only a few minutes to pick up his car from the parking lot, and when he drove to the front of the store to load the groceries, his cart was empty. He caught sight of a group of teenagers running away with what he claimed must have been his bags of food and laughing. He yelled after them, but they took off. Others complain about the “long hair bearded drifters” smoking dope, making love on the beach and drinking beer, and corrupting the local youth.
Strolling along the main drag, Liza and David pass a vendor cart. “No,” Liza chuckles looking at David. “We just had lunch.”
David shrugs. A minute later he runs back and buys two hot dogs smothered in mustard and relish. He brings them under her nose, and she gives in.
“They’re best from vendor carts,” David sums up after they finish eating them.
They walk along the beach to the secluded section, away from the strip lined with stores and restaurants and ice cream huts, far from the crowds and the blasting music.
They swim in the warm, crystal clear lake, and sunbathe by the edge of the gently splashing waves. David scoops the sand with his cupped palms and piles it up in the shape of a mermaid. He closes his eyes, and with fingertips gently traces Liza’s features. He shapes the mermaid’s face, his fingertips moulding the curves. He opens his eyes, looks intently into Liza’s face, and makes a few adjustments on the mermaid’s. Liza is astonished at her likeness — high cheek bones, deep set eyes, full lips.
David raises his eyebrows. “What say you?”
“Amazing.”
The look on the face made of sand is too realistic. Almost eerie. Almost. She feels a knot in her stomach. And the image remains etched in her vision.
Now, scanning Sculpture Hill, she suddenly realizes how difficult it must be for the sculptor in David.
“You okay, Babe?” he says.
She punches him playfully on the shoulder and begins to run. He catches up with her.
“The only way to keep you, wild thing, is to hold you tight, like this.” He gathers her into his arms and sprints toward the forested area. She wraps her arms around his neck, her face splashed by the patches of sun spilling through the green canopies of oaks.
CHAPTER 7
THE FULL MOON illuminates the park and blanches the stars in the sky. Liza sees a glimmer in the grass next to David’s shoulder, as they lie in an embrace, their nakedness swathed by the shade of a large maple. He is sprawled on his back, she pressed against him, head on his chest. She reaches for the glimmer and picks up the lens that has fallen out of his sunglasses. Lens over an eye, she gazes into the sky — several stars are brightened in the ellipse of the lens. If it wasn’t for the red I-beams of di Suvero’s Flower Power the moon has painted purple, she could imagine being anywhere. She has always feared what it would be like the first time. At times she wondered: Would she ever fall in love, or would she stay a virgin forever? And now she knows. Gently sweeping hair from her forehead, David kisses her lips, and she dreads having to part with him and go home. But it’s Thursday night, and she has to be in the office early in the morning.
* * *
Eyes closed, Liza stands in the shower as the water streams over her head, her shoulders. It’s five in the morning, and although she has not slept, she is elated. Eager to get to the office and catch up on the work she has pushed aside over the past week, she slips on a long skirt printed in white daisies, a white Indian cotton shirt, and gathers her hair in a girl-ponytail for a semi-casual Friday. After work, she will have dinner at David’s place in Parkdale. From the back of the dresser drawer where impulsive purchases shy away, she retrieves the pale yellow halter-top. It would go well over the skirt. He has never seen her wearing anything sensuous. If not in business attire, she is usually in a casual dress. She splurged on this silk top on a whim at The Colonnade on Bloor Street where she sometimes drops in after work. She finds a pair of lacy panties in a corner of the dresser, beneath a pile of practical cotton lingerie — and stuffs it in the bag. This will be her first time at his place.
Only last week she refused his offer to cook dinner for her. She saw it as a trap — a visit to his bachelor pad, his love nest. How many women has he seduced there before her, showing off his culinary arts? She will not be a notch on his bed post. But last night in the park, things just happened. Unplanned. This time, she was not strong enough to resist. Or was it he who was not strong enough to refuse? She practically tore his clothes off under that maple shadow that hid them from the moonlight as if they were delinquent teenagers. What had come over her? Was it the full moon?
A
nd now, her face is flushed just thinking about him. Until David came along with his casual arrogance and his clichéd nickname, Baby, for her, she usually lost interest in a man before the third date.
A sense of wrongdoing floods her, as if she has committed a mortal sin — sin against her own guarded self. As if she has somehow betrayed an oath to herself, unspoken yet understood. Her apprehension mushrooms by the need to be with him. Her fear of lovemaking has now been broken, and in its place her want of him has set in like obsession. It would be twelve hours before she sees him, twelve long hours she needs to fill with urgent tasks, complex enough to put him out of her thoughts. The scent of his skin, the caress of his hands, his body against hers — the taste of tobacco on his lips . . . She never imagined the taste of cigarettes on someone’s lips could be so deliciously addictive.
She steps out of the shower and scrutinizes the image in the fogged mirror. Her virginity had been intrinsically linked to her notion of self-worth — part of her old-world mentality on sex entrenched by her mother. She does feel different — something in her has changed. But worthless? No, by no means.
She has never fallen in love with anyone before David. And this need to be with him, all consuming, suddenly offers relief. She has no regrets. On the contrary — she has completed a monumental task that has loomed over her and prevented her from living life the way it should be lived. She no longer has to worry about her virginity. It is no longer there.
Her momentary alarm dissipates. She reaches in her purse for the makeup pouch, and a small plastic object falls to the wood floor. It’s David’s lens she stashed into her purse the previous night. Lens over her eye, she examines her reflection in the mirror — and is reminded of the previous night’s sky, where all is surreal.
In the subway, she stands grasping the rod above her hoping the rattling of wheels on the metal rails might shake the previous night out of her thoughts. Reading the ads, she comes across a poster featuring a likeness of Michelangelo’s David. Another is promoting Davy’s Cafe where singles mingle. Yet another offers end-of-season discounts at David’s Designer Shoes. Clearly, the subway world is conspiring against her resolve to stop thinking about David.
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